


Complicated

by thepointoftheneedle



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Betty needs a new roomate, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Veronica goes to Italy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:53:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23478028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepointoftheneedle/pseuds/thepointoftheneedle
Summary: I'm working through all the tropes now.  Here's a roommates AU.  There's pining.  There's an actual letter like it's a hundred years ago! There's even a little bit of smut.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 29
Kudos: 119
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	Complicated

**Author's Note:**

> The poem they mention is "This be the verse" by Phillip Larkin.

When Veronica told her the news her first reaction was to rush into the kitchen and begin to chop vegetables, starting with the onions. She smiled brightly at her dearest friend across the chopping board, tears streaming down her face, “I’m going to make a huge lasagne. Invite Archie. This calls for a celebration.” Betty didn’t deal well with change, she never had, but that didn’t give her an excuse to ruin what should be a joyful day for Veronica so she pretended the tears were a result of the onions.

V’s application for a year long internship in Florence had been a pipe dream for so long that Betty had almost succeeded in pushing it out of her mind. Then, last month Ms Lodge had received notification from her art school that she had been selected for a prestigious placement in the conservatorship department at the Uffizi after graduation. It was her dream and it would mean that she would be able to work with the most iconic works of art everyday. She had been in raptures about being allowed to actually touch Boticelli’s Primavera. But she had been torn. She was a young woman in love and the prospect of leaving her beloved Archie behind in New York City was too much to bear. “I trust him completely Betty but you’ve seen him. He’s a work of art in flesh. I have to be here to protect him.” So Betty had quietly taken comfort that V wouldn’t leave if it meant relinquishing Archie to the goths and vandals, or in other words the single young women of NYC, who would despoil him. Then, hearing of the plight of the young lovers, Archie’s sports science professor had mentioned that he had contacts in Italian soccer clubs who might be able to secure an internship for an eager young man. Archie had pleaded, the position was secured and now he had an app on his phone which promised to teach him Italian in fifteen minutes a day over the next three weeks. They were going. And Betty wasn’t.

Betty was bereft. V had been her support, her comfort, her defender. Their friendship was a certainty in an uncertain world and she leaned on it, perhaps more than she should. The girls loved each other unconditionally, like sisters. There were practical considerations too. Betty and Veronica lived in an apartment which Betty could never afford alone on TA pay as a grad student. She would have to leave her room with the blue painted walls, their bathroom with the deep tub, the kitchen with the only oven she had ever found that could reach the level of heat required to make almost authentic pizza and the balcony that looked down onto the eclectic and sometimes alarming street life of Red Hook. She supposed that she would have to find a room in a shared house with strangers. She began to imagine lying awake while she tried not to hear roommates having sex, arguing, playing the drums and screaming over video games. She liked quiet and order. She didn’t mind doing most of the cleaning because Veronica didn’t carelessly make a mess. She enjoyed cooking and V always ate what she provided with enjoyment and appreciation. Soon she would be creeping into a shared kitchen at midnight to pour water on ramen and scurry back to her room with the bowl. She’d have to write her papers on social policy in the library rather than at her well ordered desk in her own home. It made her want to weep.

The lasagne bubbled while Betty mourned. She became aware that Veronica had sidled next to her while she stared dolefully into the oven. V handed her a glass of Barolo and cleared her throat, which was what she tended to do when she was about to try to force Betty out of her comfort zone. “What is it V? What do you want me to do?”

“OK, so I know you won’t have thought about it yet but this apartment is going to be too big and too expensive for you when I’m away. Am I right?” Betty smiled. Veronica wouldn’t have thought about this at all. She could discern Archie’s influence here. He would have immediately concerned himself with the practical implications of them taking off to Europe for a year.

“Well, I guess I’ll find a room. It’ll be fun. Meeting new people.” Betty really tried to sound like a bright and breezy Zooey Deschanel, single-girl-about-town character. She was aware that she came up short.

“Maybe. Or maybe you’d hate that. I know you love this place. So Arch and I had an idea. You know Jughead, his roomie?”

Betty very much knew the roomie of whom V spoke. Her feelings were, to say the least mixed on the subject. Her first impression had been broadly “Holy Shit!” He was so exactly her type that she found it slightly hard to believe he really existed. He was tall but slim. She always felt a little intimidated by Archie’’s sheer bulk, he more than filled any space he was in like a grizzly bear in an elevator. Jughead was like a sleek snake; he seemed to occupy the shadows and corners of spaces, always making way, never drawing focus. His eyes were a kind of intense, stormy blue grey that spoke of being misunderstood and misjudged and they were shadowed by a remarkably fine, chiseled brow line. His mouth was just unfairly fascinating. There were the plump, sensuous lips which he bit when he was feeling alienated or excluded, which was almost all the time. His jawline was so sharply defined that she thought it would cut anyone foolish enough to kiss along it. His hair was just a masterpiece. Either he secretly spent hours and thousands of dollars to make it look like that or some benevolent pagan god had bestowed a gift on the infant Jughead that ensured his hair would always make girls weak kneed in his presence. It was jet black, glossy and fell in anarchic waves into his eyes. Most of the time he swept it back under a beanie, hiding his power from the unworthy, but sometimes, and Betty treasured these moments, he pushed off his hat and pulled his fingers through the strands roughly before replacing the offending woollen item. So, “Holy Shit!” But he was difficult to get to know. He seemed to hold himself apart from people unless he had known them since birth. She did see him laughing and wrestling with Archie who had always been his best friend and foster brother and she had heard him teasing his sister on the phone. With Betty and Veronica, however, he rarely spoke at all and when he did it was some sardonic, sarcastic or self deprecating remark which he threw down and then retreated back into silence. When Betty asked V about him she just reported that Archie said he’d had a tough start but that Jug was a good guy and he loved him. Betty had had tough times herself so she understood his reserve but she felt that he was particularly uncommunicative with her and it sometimes made her suspect that he found her trivial or unworthy of his notice. She just felt uncomfortable around him most of the time, torn between lusting after his beautiful body and worrying that he was judging her as dumb or shallow.

“Yeah, obviously I know Jughead.” Betty replied, taking a swig of the Barolo, assuming she was going to need it.

“Well he’s in the same boat as you. He can’t pay rent on the place he and Archie share and it’s frankly a dump anyway. So we thought maybe he could move in here with you and take on my share of the rent. He’s a grad student but he’s got a pretty generous scholarship as well as his TA hours so he can afford it. You’d have company, he’s clean and quiet, doesn’t have parties or actually friends except Archie, doesn’t seem to bring back loads of girls, doesn’t drink, just reads really. It could be perfect. What do you think?”

“I think he hates me and definitely won’t go for it,” was Betty’s response. V looked surprised that Betty could think anyone disliked her and assured her that it simply couldn’t be true. She thought she had solved the jigsaw puzzle and she wasn’t going to be easily dissuaded.  
“Well Archie’s bringing him over. Once he’s tasted your lasagne he’ll be in love with you and the problem will be solved. In theory though you’re OK with it?”

Betty was certain that there would be no way that Jughead would uproot his life to live with her so she shrugged and made a non committal noise at Veronica and swigged her wine.

The evening passed in the same way that other evenings at home with Veronica and Archie did. They made sheep’s eyes at each other over the pasta, began to kiss over desert and disappeared into her bedroom before coffee. Normally at this point Jughead would raise his eyebrows impatiently and head home, clutching a container of leftovers. Tonight however when the lovebirds had flown he looked seriously at Betty and asked “So, how horrified are you by the idea that I move in here when they’re gone?”

“Not horrified. I’ve been dreading finding some squalid room in a shared place. I don’t want to live with strangers and I know you a little. You seem to be sane and responsible and I don’t know that about anyone else I might move in with so I’m OK with it if you are.”

“Wouldn’t you rather find a girl to share with?” he asked, looking at her with an intensity he had never granted her before.

“Doesn’t matter. V and I don’t spend evenings braiding each other’s hair anyway. Would you be uncomfortable? I mean sharing with a girl?” He seemed to swallow hard before answering.  
“Archie doesn’t braid my hair either. Although I actually got quite good at it when I lived with my sister. So if braiding is required I can be called upon.” He smiled at her and she forgot to breathe. She hadn’t ever been blessed with a Jughead smile before. It was heart stopping. That he should have such a weapon in his artillery and never use it amazed her. She supposed that once a person had been smiled at by Jughead they were forever in his power. She suddenly feared that this arrangement could be a little more complicated than she had anticipated. 

Two months later, a day after they had waved Veronica and Archie off at JFK, Jughead turned up at the door with a holdall. Betty tried to look behind him for the rest of his stuff but he just held up the holdall. “I travel pretty light. I like to be able to pack up and go if I need to. There are a few boxes of books that I’ve left with a friend. I didn’t want to monopolise the shelf space.”

“Hey, Jughead. This is your place now, you’re not monopolising if you bring your books home. I want you to feel settled.” She smiled what she hoped was a friendly welcoming smile which only slipped a little when he bent to pick up the holdall and his shirt rode up his back, exposing a delicious sliver of tanned olive skin. 

While he threw his bag onto what she still thought of as Veronica’s bed she made coffee so they could try to break the ice a little. She already knew he liked strong black drip coffee so that was what she served and he seemed to appreciate it even if she thought it still tasted like engine oil after she added cream and sugar to hers. She’d baked macadamia nut cookies to welcome him and he ate four with his first cup of coffee. When she admitted that she had made them herself he looked at her as though she had told him that she could transmute lead into gold. She asked him about his roommate red lines and he claimed not to have any. “Jug, you don’t strike me as being laid back, like at all. Tell me what annoys you so that we don’t need to make each other crazy before we work stuff out. Are you a morning person?”

“Surely no-one is a morning person? I guess I wouldn’t know because I’m rarely conscious in the morning so…”

“Well I am the mythical morning person but now I know that you aren’t I can avoid disturbing you at six a.m. when I go out to run. If you’re up late you’ll know that I’m generally asleep by ten so you’ll keep the volume down then.”

“You get up at six and run? Why would anyone do that? That’s terrible. Can’t you just not?”

“I have some anxiety. It’s probably good that you know that too. I’m fine most of the time, if I keep to a routine and eat well and exercise I have a handle on it. If not I can spiral a bit. Nothing for you to worry about and totally not your problem. If I’m scrubbing the bathroom at three in the morning that’ll be why.”

“OK, since we’re sharing, depression.’ He pointed at his chest. “I have medication. If I don’t get up at all or go totally nocturnal I’ll be in that space. I’ve had some bad strategies in the past but I’m doing better lately. It’s why I don’t drink. I’m not being anti social. Although I am anti social too.”

“OK, understood. What about cooking? Do you want a kitchen rota? I love to cook so I’d be happy to feed you if you want or we can just take care of ourselves.”

“Wait, what? You’re saying that you’ll cook for me? Really?” He stared at her in stunned silence again.

“Yeah, if that’s something you’d like. We can just split the food bill. If there’s something you like or can’t stand just let me know and I can plan around it.”

“I like food and I like it best when someone else cooks it. Oh, I’m allergic to soy. So I could never be a vegan.” He made a mock sad face and she giggled. There was a silly side to him that she hadn’t been aware of and all it took to bring it out was cookies and some genuine interest in him. “Do you want a cleaning rota or something? I’m a little compulsive about tidying. It drove Arch crazy when I tidied up after him but I grew up in pretty close quarters and it makes you a neat freak.” He spoke about being tidy like it was a character flaw but Betty was relieved to hear that he wouldn’t be messy.

“How about we make a time to clean each week? Like say Tuesday night. There’s not such a lot to do that we need too much time. Then if I cook, you wash up afterwards. I hate taking out the trash so you do that and I’ll buy groceries. OK?”

“Deal, Roomie. Sounds good.” He held out his fist and she bumped it to seal the deal but as her hand touched his she felt an unexpected thrill at the touch. She really needed to keep this from being complicated.

They settled into a domestic routine. They both liked their own space, neither enjoyed meaningless chit chat. They shared books, watched true crime docs together and fell into a weekly cinema habit. He asked pertinent questions about her research in criminology and she critiqued early drafts of his short stories. He loved her Fettuccine Alfredo and she discovered that he could make Pad Thai from scratch. He worked efficiently in the kitchen, cleaning up carefully as he went so that by the time he served the meal the surfaces were already clear and the only thing to wash up were the plates and silverware. She loved to watch him chop vegetables, his long fingers wielding a knife with consummate skill. She loved to look at his hands. When he was reading on the sofa late in the evening he’d lick a finger to turn the page and she would flush as she looked at him. “Complicated” she warned herself. Sometimes he’d be finishing a paper for his grad school course, sitting on a stool at the kitchen island and she’d just gaze at the long fingers flying over the keys, imagining his thumb pressing against her bottom lip before she took it into her mouth, suckling around the prominent knuckle. She’d shake herself and disappear into the bathroom to take a long cold shower. She was made hot and uncomfortable from the mere thought of his fingers so when he’d emerge from the shower with a towel around his waist she’d feel like bursting into tears. There was a line of dark hair that began at his navel and disappeared under the fold of the towel and she wanted to drop to her knees and run her tongue along it. She imagined reaching up and untying the towel and looking into his eyes as he shivered in response to the sensation she was providing. She was becoming a sex fiend. She wondered if he was having any reaction to her. Sometimes she imagined that an accidental touch as they brushed past each other in the kitchen wasn’t really unavoidable but she couldn’t say for sure. When she came home from her run he was sometimes emerging from his room to get to what he considered an early class and she imagined that he flushed a little when he saw her panting with exertion, especially on hot days when she had run in shorts and a crop top. He might have just been finding her sweatiness repulsive though.

Her sleep became problematic too. Several times she awoke to find herself wet with arousal from a half remembered dream of him poised above her, his weight on one elbow as he kissed and nipped at her breasts, his glorious fingers touching her just as she needed him to before she felt his erection pressing against her, him murmuring for permission before pushing thrillingly into her. Once, she was almost sure, she awoke with his name on her lips. If he heard her moaning his name as she had sex dreams about him the poor guy would surely have to move out and she didn’t want that. No matter how complicated things became, she enjoyed his company, respected him, looked forward to discussing her day with him over dinner. She wished that V wasn’t thousands of miles away. She needed to talk about it.

After a few weeks of frustrated pining her body seemed to accept that it was not going to get what it craved. The dreams largely stopped. She was able to control the electrical sparks that she felt when his fingers touched hers as he passed her the salt or they both reached into the popcorn bowl at the same time. She made sure that she was in her room when he was using the shower so she could avoid the sight of too much of his skin. Now she started to notice just how much she liked him as a human not just as a man. 

Late one evening after they’d been to the movies to see a screening of “Bicycle Thieves” their conversation turned to their childhoods. Betty described her mother’s impossible demands and her constant criticism. She explained that her relationship with food was complex because her mother told her the she was fat and that she would be a failure because she was unable to maintain self-discipline. He was horrified and confused by the whole situation. “You do know that you’re not overweight right? You know you’re amazing looking and strong? Oh God sorry. Forget I said anything. I don’t want you to think I’m perving on you but just... wow.” She couldn’t keep the smile from her lips at his blushing confusion at admitting he’d noticed her body. Then he told her about his dad’s alcoholism and his mom’s abandonment. He recalled a night when his dad had been arrested and he’d called his mom to ask if he could come to her and she’d told him no. All he’d say was that it was a rough night but those stormy eyes revealed a deep pain that made her want to kiss his eyelids and long lashes to soothe the hurt away. She began to quote “This be the verse” and he joined in before she got to the second line. They bonded over having crappy parents. He looked into her eyes thoughtfully and posed the question, “Does it have to ruin you do you think? Like can I fix what they broke in me or do you think I’m irredeemably fucked up?” 

She took his hand in hers across the kitchen island and answered. “Juggie if you’re fucked up there’s no hope for the world. You’re smart and caring and sensitive and brave. And you make a great Pad Thai. And you have wonderful taste in movies. You’ve fixed yourself just fine.”

“You’re being kind Betts. I’m a weirdo and I know it. I can’t talk to people, can’t be open with them. I’m always using sarcasm to fend them off. I don’t know why I can’t just be real with them.”

“Hey Jug, what’s this now? Am I hallucinating or are we having a real, genuine conversation? You’re open with me aren’t you?”

“Yeah but, I dunno Betts. You’re a special case. You could get Genghis Khan to be vulnerable with you. It’s your super power. People trust you. Everyone knows you’re good. It kind of shines out of you. You’re lit up from inside and it draws everyone in.”

She found herself just gazing into his eyes and he was gazing back, seeing right inside her. It was unnervingly to be the focus of so much attention but she couldn’t tear herself away from him. “I don’t know about that. There‘s a dark side to me but I just keep it well hidden. You wouldn’t want to see inside my head sometimes. And you’re special too you know. Like when I get home and you’re already here it feels like I can let go and relax. I can trust you and rely on you when everything is a bit too much. Oh actually I know what it’s like! When I was really little my nana had this big, black Newfoundland dog, Angus, and when I stayed at her house she’d let him sleep on my bed at night and he was so warm and soft and safe. You’re like the human version of that.”

He smiled at her but there was something else in his eyes. “I’m not that safe you know Betts. I bet the dog had teeth too didn’t it?” Something twisted in her belly at the tilt of his eyebrow and the slight curl of his lip and she sucked in a breath.

“OK I’m going to bed. You’re much too sexy to be around right now.” A surprised laugh exploded from him as she hurried away to her room to stand, with her back against the door, breathing hard and trying to stop herself from going back to where he sat and kissing him. She needed to think first and, while he’d got her so riled up, rational thought was just impossible.

The next day when she woke up and reached for her running clothes she saw a note on the floor. He must have shoved it under the door while she slept. She unfolded it, butterflies fluttering manically in her stomach.

Dearest Betts,  
I have a confession to make. I’ve been in love with you since I’ve known you. It was possible to bury it when I saw you so rarely. I told myself there was no way someone so wonderful would ever look at weird, scrawny, awkward me and so I kept quiet, hid in the shadows, watching you like a creep.

And then Archie suggested I move in here. I was too weak to turn down the chance to see you everyday so I agreed, knowing that it would be exquisite torture to see you but not be able to touch you, to perhaps become your friend and one day be invited to your wedding to some much more worthy man. And these last six months have been so amazing. I thought I loved you then but I barely knew what it meant. Now that I know the real you, I love you more everyday. I love the way your pulse flutters in your throat when you come back from a run so I get up at seven a.m even when I don’t have an early class so I can see it. I love the way you startle at the same jump scare in a movie you’ve seen a dozen times. I especially love it when you reach for my hand when it happens. I love the way you watch me and bite your lip when I chop veggies. I usually chop far too many so you’ll keep watching. I love the way you dream about me and moan my name. That makes me so hard and breathless as I lie in bed next door, wanting to come to you and do what you’re dreaming that I’m doing. I love your honesty, the fact that you care so much about everything that you hurt yourself, I love you.

I have begun to think that maybe there’s a chance that you might like me too. I can’t understand how that could have happened. Us Jones men have never been lucky but maybe all that bad luck exists to create balance in a universe where I eventually get so, so lucky, a universe where I get you. But here’s the thing. I couldn’t lose you. I couldn’t be with you as a distraction or to keep away the loneliness. If I was with you it would be for the long haul. So I need to know, is there any chance that, one day, if I try my hardest to deserve you, you might love me, just a little? If there is I’m yours, body and heart and soul, forever. If not I think I have to go. I can’t see what I can’t have anymore because I think it might kill me. So, think about it Betts. Let me know. Understand that I’m yours. Please be kind.

Your Jug 

The tears were rolling down her cheeks, her hair was wild, she hadn’t even brushed her teeth but she practically flew next door to find him lying on his bed, staring at her as she threw open the door and scrambling to sit up, supporting himself on his elbows. She sat next to him on the mattress and, without saying a word, kissed him with all the passion and desire and love that she had been pushing aside for months. He seemed to catch fire with the kiss, pulling her back onto the bed with him and then taking the higher position, stroking her hair and pushing with his tongue against her lips. “Do you want this Betty? Do you want me?” he muttered between kisses and she murmured, 

“Yes, oh yes, so much.” Her hands were carding through his messy dark hair, stroking that jawline, her fingertips running down his side over his t shirt and then back up under the fabric. He took the hint and struggled out of it before he began to pull her pyjama top off her shoulder so he could kiss and suck at her neck. “I’ve wanted you since we met too. I’ve been dreaming of you for months.” She panted and pulled backwards so that she could look at him. His eyes were dark with lust and half closed, his lips even more full and red than usual from kissing her, along his beautiful cheekbones there was a smudge of pink, his blood racing with excitement. He opened his mouth and descended on her again, moving his lips from shoulder to clavicle and, wrenching buttons undone, to her breasts. She began to make a whining noise that surprised her as he sucked and flicked her nipple with his tongue. She thought she might turn inside out with the chaos that was building inside her. “Touch me Jug, put your hands on me, I need you.” He obliged and as his hand ran over her stomach and down to her hips she began to gasp. Then his hand was where she needed it, those long, sensitive fingers stroking her so gently but with focus and purpose. She just relaxed into it, knowing that she was safe with him and he built her gradually, his mouth on her breast, his fingers moving against her, until she came with a sharp cry and wracking aftershocks. As soon as she could open her eyes she was on him, kissing his chest, her tongue flicking out to taste him, her lips moving over his smooth stomach to the trail of hair that had tormented her. She took him in her mouth and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"Betts you don’t have to…” he protested weakly.

“I want you in my mouth, I’ve dreamed of how you’ll taste. Tell me what you like.”

“Oh my god Betty. I like that. Oh fuck. Am I dreaming?” Betty worked diligently to bring the curses and gasps and twitches from him that assured her that he was close, her hands stroked over his hips, against his thighs, then, as she swirled her tongue around him and stroked him with one hand he moaned and let go. She had never felt more powerful than she felt at that moment, as he shuddered to his climax with her lips around him. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up to him as she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and he closed his eyes at the sight. “Betts, I can die now a happy man. You’re the best. Thank you.”

“Pleasure was all mine Jug. Turns out I like giving blow jobs.” She grinned cheekily.

“Right well in the handbook of being the best girlfriend in the history of the world that phrase is at the top of page one.”

“Is that what I am? Am I your girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend, love of my life, owner, wife. Pick any you like. The question is will you let me be your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend, lover, partner…” a wicked look passed over her face, “Daddy…”

He closed his eyes, slammed his head back against the pillow and laughed breathlessly. “You’ll be the death of me woman. Now come here and let me make love to you.”


End file.
